


Like A Million Suns

by obstinatrix



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: (I can't believe ~first acid trip~ isn't a tag given how many of these fics there are), Drug Use, First Acid Trip, First Time, LSD, M/M, Psychedelic, Sergeant Pepper Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29695752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: The prompt was 'they needed each other like mad'; the outcome was yet another bit of incoherent blather about that first acid trip together.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	Like A Million Suns

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in...2012? and posted it on a comment fic meme. Remember those?? Anyway, now it's here. You may have read it before.

Curiosity alone would never have driven Paul to it. There was too much fear involved, too much uncertainty. He liked the world the way he saw it now; the last thing he wanted was to go on a trip and come back thinking humanity was monstrous, blanket-deal, and nothing was sacred but the sun.   
  
It was the look on John's face that did it, the way he clutched at Paul's arm as Paul led him (careful, careful) down the stairs at Abbey Road, murmuring nonsense into his ear. "Sssh, Johnny, ssh. It's all right, it'll be all right. You're coming home with me. "  
  
John moaned and rolled his eyes, not ironically but desperately, desperately. His hair clung, copper-coloured, to his sweaty forehead. Paul bundled him into the car without ceremony, his heart beating fast.  
  
Back at Cavendish Avenue, it was no different. John clutched at Paul's shirt and keened. "Too hot, baby, I'm too hot." His fingers inched their way beneath Paul's sweater and shirt together, palms flattening against his stomach. "Baby, the walls -- the walls! They're gonna get me, gonna get me, Paul --"   
  
John needed him: that was what pushed him off the edge. John needing him, and Paul, like always, craving that need like mad.   
  
He knew they would end up in the same place. He wasn't sure how, but he knew it before he put the tab on his tongue and he knew it when the living room began breathing around him, because he and John had lived in the same mental landscape for years, now, and if John was lost somewhere in it, then Paul would find him. Paul, and nobody else.   
  
"Paul?" That was John, clutching at his shoulders, his hair. John had beautiful hands, long-fingered and deft, and now they carded restlessly through the thick sweaty swathe of Paul's hair across his forehead, combing it back. "Paul...my eyes are too big...do they look wrong? Paul!"   
  
John had been dressed in brown corduroy before, Paul was sure, and yet, now he was pure white, iridescent. His eyes glowed, fox-amber. Paul wanted to touch them, bleed into them. He wanted to fall into John and lose himself. The most unnerving thing about the feeling was how ordinary it felt, even while he knew the movement of the walls was only the drug, and that in reality the room stood still. He wanted to fall into John, and it didn't feel like psychosis. It just felt like them.   
  
They ended up on the floor. Paul wasn't sure how, but suddenly the shagpile carpet was prickling softly against his cheek and John had both hands on the small of Paul's back, under his shirt, cradling the dip of his spine. His fingers rubbed little circles through the place where sweat had collected, in the valley that held Paul's coccyx like Phoenicia sheltered Elijah, oh, oh, Ezekiel. John moved towards him like an emperor, like a god, and Paul felt his smile burning holes into his face, charring his skin.  
  
"John," he said. The word came out of his eyes. John stared back at him, beautiful, endless. "Don't leave me, love."   
  
"No, no," John said, as if such a thing were unthinkable. "Your hands know the road to El Dorado, my friend."   
  
Paul considered this. It seemed fairly logical. "They hurt," he said, plaintive, and John clicked his tongue, caught Paul's hands in his and lifted them to his mouth.   
  
"Poor thing," he said, and kissed them. "Kiss it better?" He shifted, kissing the tips of Paul's fingers, and Paul began to cry. It came out of nowhere, a surge of pain that heaved out of his chest like vomit, but John was waiting for it, pulling Paul in and kissing him, kissing him, cradling.   
  
"All right," he said, kissing Paul's temple. "All right, I've found you, I've got you. Can't you see the seagulls?"   
  
The seagulls bloomed out of the back of John's head, wings beating furious against the plaster, against the forest beyond. Paul nodded his head, and John smiled, hips hitching closer.   
  
"Good," he said, and then his mouth was on Paul's, tasting of grass-grass and weed-grass and salt. "I've got your heart in my mouth, Paul. I swallowed it and now it's stuck."   
  
"I know," Paul said, and his chest turned over. "Johnny. I know."   
  
His heart was at the base of John's throat, caught somewhere in the hinterland between his diaphragm and his stomach. Paul spent a long time trying to suck it out, tongue working wetly against John's, long hard sucks from the root to the tip of it, sharp little nips that made John hiss and curse. Paul put his hands on John's face, holding him still, and John made a ragged sound in his throat and fucked forward into him, rutting into the groove of Paul's hip. He was hard, of course, and Paul touched him without thinking, pads of his fingers mapping the spine of John's dick.   
  
"I can't hear you," John said, panting into the hollow of Paul's throat. "Baby, I can't hear you. Take your clothes off. Please, take your clothes off for me. I can't remember where the door is."   
  
The ache in John's voice throbbed like a heartbeat, so Paul took his clothes off: t-shirt and blazer and jeans, till only his underwear remained, and John made short work of that. The carpet seemed to want him, kissing him wetly all over, and he arched away from it into John, reaching for his hair, fisting his hands in it.   
  
"Johnny," he said, feeling hunted, "I can't feel my legs."   
  
John smiled up at him, pressed his nose into the swollen thrust of Paul's cock and said, "Let me save you, baby. I'm the Messiah."   
  
_I'm the Messiah_.   
  
Paul relaxed his thighs, surrendered, let himself be born again.   
  
Afterwards, when John crawled up him, Paul could see himself inside of him -- the heat of his come in John's stomach glowing gently, a tell-tale heart. He rolled John over brutally, legs spasming, and John let him, though he leaned up to seize Paul's mouth, tongue fucking wetly to Paul's back teeth, feeding the salt-sour taste right into Paul's throat, God. Paul pulled back, up on his elbows; wrenched the two halves of John's shirt apart so the buttons popped off, and something in it was vengeful, but John only laughed, went on laughing until Paul laughed too, and then it was too late. John was coming undone beneath him, the hard line of his dick shoving at the fly of his jeans, and Paul needed him, needed him, needed him. John was medicine, John was the antidote; nothing else could save Paul from himself. He tugged open the button of John's fly, and the weight of his dick forced the zip down the rest of the way, splaying the teeth wide. Like this, Paul could smell him, musky and raw, and it made the pulse skip in his throat, in his feet.   
  
"John," he got out, voice shredded.   
  
"Paul," John said weakly. His energy seemed to spool on forever, untrammelled, drifting out across the universe. "Babe."  
  
He tasted like spring, like sex and sweat and waves of vibrant lilac. Paul groaned in the back of his throat, fucked his mouth down hard and wet onto John's dick and John arched his back, clutched at Paul's hair, cried out. The cries were what Paul lived for, all of a sudden; the cries kept him alive, and so he redoubled his efforts, drooling wetly down the shaft of John's cock and shoving his thighs wide two-handed, twisting as he pulled up and tonguing at the head; screwing his way down slickly until John groaned and spasmed and jerked.   
  
"Oh, fuck, Paul," John hissed, "no, no, no," but he meant _yes_. Paul knew it. He couldn't have meant anything else.   
  
Afterwards, when he was full of John, Paul felt a little better. John tugged him up by the shoulders, entangled their legs, and then they were eye to eye, John all pupil, his eyes black and black and black. Paul shivered, tugged at his hair, and John laughed a little.   
  
"Alice down the rabbit hole," he said, soft, "eh, darlin'? The Emperor wants his clothes back."   
  
"Can't have 'em," Paul said, with conviction. "No, no, he can't he can't. Johnny, when you die, will you wait for me before you go home?"   
  
"Of course, baby," John said, and kissed his mouth, sloppy wet suck to his lower lip. "Of course I will."  
  
Paul twisted in his arms, kissed him and kissed him. To seal the promise.


End file.
